


Court of Broken Dreams

by Aini_NuFire



Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [8]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Dragon Riders, Friendship, Gen, Porthos Angst, Protective brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22361668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: A string of violent robberies lead the musketeers to the place Porthos grew up—the Court of Miracles.
Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564573
Comments: 18
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Back to the present timeline with this one.

D'Artagnan waited as Constance paid the merchant they'd come to see. One of the Musketeer dragons had picked up a fungal infection and needed a special cream to treat it. Fortunately, such specialty items could be found in a city as large as Paris. D'Artagnan had accompanied Constance on the errand because…well, simply because he liked spending time with her. She was smart and caring, fearless around creatures that sent most people cowering for cover. And she spoke her mind, a trait d'Artagnan found captivating. Aramis and Porthos liked to tease him, and d'Artagnan always vehemently denied it, but the truth was he was wholly and utterly smitten with Constance Bonacieux.

They finished up at the shop and started to make their way back to the royal dragon den. It was late evening and getting dark; the merchant had been located all the way across the city, making their excursion not a short one. D'Artagnan didn't mind, though. All the more time to spend with Constance.

"Do you want to stop at a tavern for a meal?" he asked. "My treat."

"The sooner we get back, the sooner I can start treating Huron," she replied, then glanced at him as though realizing what he'd meant. "But if you wanted to prepare something while I see to him, we could sit down to eat afterward."

D'Artagnan grinned. "I can do that."

They turned down a side street, only to pull up short as two masked figures stepped into their path. D'Artagnan felt Constance stiffen beside him. He moved to position himself in front of her, but movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention, and he glanced over his shoulder to find two more men had hemmed them in from behind.

"Hand over yer coin," one of the ones ahead of them demanded.

D'Artagnan immediately drew his sword. "I advise you to rethink this."

The sound of scraping steel sliding from scabbards responded. D'Artagnan ushered Constance to the side and behind him so he could see all four men. He was outnumbered, he realized, not that it deterred him. Athos's voice echoed in his mind, lecturing him on caution and restraint, and d'Artagnan waited for the robbers to make the first move.

Two charged him at once and d'Artagnan swung his sword to parry first one and then the other. He whipped out his main gauche so he could meet both opponent blades simultaneously, the shriek of colliding steel ringing through the night.

D'Artagnan planted a boot into the stomach of one attacker and shoved him back several steps. A third from their party leaped in to take his place. D'Artagnan fought with a flurried mix of his temperamental fury and the control Athos had been drilling into him.

Constance suddenly screamed and d'Artagnan whirled to see the fourth mugger had seized her arms and was trying to wrest her purse away. The man backhanded her when she didn't let go, the sound of smacked flesh echoing loudly, and the force sent Constance crashing to the ground.

D'Artagnan threw his main gauche by reflex, the point finding its mark in the assailant's chest. The man fell backward without a sound. D'Artagnan spun back to the remaining three, throwing his sword up in time to block a blow aimed at his neck. With a deft twist, he disarmed his opponent and scored a slash across the man's shoulder. The robber staggered back.

D'Artagnan drew his pistol next and took aim at one of the others getting too close to Constance. The man suddenly leaped onto the wall, the musket ball embedding in some plaster instead, and pushed off with both feet to propel himself across the alley where he landed on his feet and took off at a run. D'Artagnan blinked in bewilderment at the abrupt move, then quickly swung his sword up in preparation of another attack, but the other two were fleeing as well.

D'Artagnan quickly turned to Constance. "Are you all right?" he asked urgently, kneeling down beside her.

She slowly pushed herself upright, looking shaken. "I'm fine." She winced at speaking and gingerly touched her fingers to her bottom lip, which was bleeding and already beginning to swell.

D'Artagnan reached out to brush his thumb over her chin. His heart constricted when she flinched at his touch, even though it was just reflex.

"Come on," he said, giving her a hand up.

Her eyes drifted over his shoulder to the man lying on the ground. "Is he dead?" she asked tremulously.

D'Artagnan sheathed his sword and went to crouch next to him, pulling the mask off. Sightless eyes stared up at him. D'Artagnan's aim had been true and the man had died instantly.

"Yes." He yanked his parrying dagger out of the guy's chest and wiped it clean on the thief's trousers. Then he put it back on his belt and stood to gather Constance into his arms. "Let's get you home and taken care of. Then I'll report this to Captain Treville."

Constance straightened her shoulders and pulled back. "We should tell him now."

D'Artagnan frowned. "Are you sure? I can handle it."

"I'm fine," she reiterated, though her face paled slightly as she glanced back at the dead man lying in the street.

D'Artagnan took her by the arm and steered her away from the sight, back toward the garrison. Her steps never faltered as they made their way up to the captain's office. The door was closed but there was a light within. D'Artagnan knocked.

"Enter," came the response.

D'Artagnan opened the door and held it for Constance to go in first.

"Mademoiselle Bonacieux," Treville greeted from behind his desk. At a second glance at her face, his gaze sharpened and he immediately stood. "What happened?"

"Four men attempted to rob us in the street," d'Artagnan replied. "I fought them, killing one. The other three fled."

Treville glanced between them before focusing on Constance. "They assaulted you?"

She gave a stilted nod. "The one- the one d'Artagnan killed."

Treville flicked a look his way again. "Start from the beginning."

D'Artagnan recounted what had happened, though he hesitated when describing the acrobatics he'd witnessed when the one assailant evaded his shot. It wasn't exactly typical of a robbery.

"I saw it too," Constance put in, and d'Artagnan threw her a grateful look.

Treville let out a heavy exhalation. "There have been increased reports of muggings in the city recently, each one characterized by unnecessary violence on the part of the gang responsible. The Red Guard were supposed to be looking into it."

D'Artagnan let out a derisive snort. "They're doing a great job."

Treville made a noncommittal noise. "It might be time for the Musketeers to lend a hand. I'll put together a map of the incident locations. Perhaps we can figure out where they might strike next." He walked past them to retrieve his cloak. "D'Artagnan, please see Constance home and tended to. I'll send some men to retrieve the body of the man you killed, and we will discuss strategy further tomorrow."

D'Artagnan nodded and followed Constance out of the captain's office. The royal dragon compound was just next door to the garrison, so it wasn't far to escort her the rest of the way home.

Her father was sitting at the table with a glass of wine and a book when they entered the house. His eyes widened in alarm when he saw them and he dropped the book haphazardly as he surged to his feet.

"Constance!"

"I'm all right," she assured him as he came around the table and gripped her arms.

Jean shot a half accusatorial look at d'Artagnan. "What happened?"

"We were almost robbed," Constance answered before he could. "D'Artagnan fought them off."

"Not fast enough," he commented quietly.

"I'm _fine_ , really."

"Come, sit down." Her father ushered her over to a chair, then grabbed a towel off the counter. He dunked the corner of the cloth in the water pitcher and squeezed the excess out over the floor before moving back to Constance and dabbing at her swollen lip. "I shouldn't have sent you on that errand."

Constance huffed irritably. "I've done those types of errands dozens of times. And it's not like they wouldn't have tried to rob you because you're a man. There were four of them."

Jean shot her an incredulous look. "Is that supposed to make me feel better? That you were attacked by four scoundrels who could have murdered you in the street."

"They didn't. D'Artagnan saved me." Constance glanced at him with a small smile before wincing at the pressure of the cloth on her split lip.

Jean sighed and also looked his way. "Thank you."

"I'm just glad I was there." D'Artagnan couldn't bear the thought of Constance having been on her own and cornered by those thugs.

"Oh no," she suddenly exclaimed. "I forgot about Huron." She placed her coin purse that she had been clutching this whole time on the table and dug out the tin of medicine they'd bought earlier. "I meant to give him this tonight as soon as we got back."

"I'm sure he can wait until tomorrow morning," d'Artagnan said.

"He's already miserable," she insisted.

Jean reached out and covered her hand with his. "I'll see to him." He looked over at d'Artagnan. "Can you finish with this here?"

"I'll be much better with this than rubbing gunk between a dragon's toes," he admitted.

Jean smirked and picked up the tin. Giving his daughter's shoulder a squeeze, he then left.

D'Artagnan dragged a chair over to sit in front of Constance and picked up the towel, folding it over to gently clean more blood away. "Are you sure you're all right?" he asked softly, searching her face for the truth.

There was a flicker of annoyance again before her expression fell. "I felt powerless," she said in a low voice.

D'Artagnan immediately took her hands in her lap. "You know I'd never let anything happen to you, right?"

She gave him a small smile. "I know. I'm just not used to feeling…useless."

He smiled back. "Maybe you should start taking a dragon escort with you into the city. No one would mess with you then."

Constance rolled her eyes. "Right, because that's practical." Her expression softened. "You handled yourself pretty well back there. Lucky you were with me."

D'Artagnan's smile slipped. It was fortunate he'd invited himself along on her errand, but at the same time, he knew that fight could have just as easily gone the other way. He'd been outnumbered, and if those ruffians had been just a little more skilled or a little more determined, tonight could have had a very different ending.

But one thing was for certain: he was going to help catch these criminals and punish them for daring to hurt Constance.

.o.0.o.

Porthos sat in Vrita's saddle, his dragon perched atop a church rooftop overlooking a Paris neighborhood. It was their second night out on patrol hoping to catch this gang of thieves in the act. Athos and Aramis with their dragons were stationed on other rooftops several blocks apart, and d'Artagnan was on the ground with Joubert doing foot patrol.

Vrita swung her head left, having noticed something. Porthos followed the direction of her gaze and caught sight of movement down a nearby street. The figures were keeping to the shadows, making it hard to get a good look at them and what they might be up to. Porthos watched intently, eyes tracking them as they made their way up the road until they came to a stop at a street juncture where they stopped. Lying in wait perhaps?

There was a tavern a little ways up the road with traffic coming and going. It wasn't until a lone man exited, his garb the finer cloth of the merchant class, that the figures started to move again, splitting up down two separate alleys.

Porthos nudged Vrita into taking flight, holding on a little tighter than usual since his anchor line wasn't attached. Dragons couldn't land in most of the narrow streets of Paris, so Porthos was going to have to do a drop-in.

From his vantage point, he saw the figures corner the merchant in an alley. One of them carried a club that he thumped menacingly in the palm of his other hand. Vrita swooped overhead just as the thieves began to close in on the merchant, and Porthos jumped from the saddle, bending his knees to absorb the impact as he hit the ground several feet below. The thieves faltered in surprise but quickly recovered, two rushing at Porthos instead. He immediately drew his schiavona and charged forward to meet them head on.

His large blade easily caught the swings of two smaller rapiers striking out, and Porthos used the force of his bulk to drive the men back. Behind them, the other two had continued to rob their victim of his coin, the merchant's frightened blubbering mixing with the peal of metal. Porthos saw the one with the club raise it high to strike the defenseless man, but then d'Artagnan and Joubert arrived. Joubert surged forward and blocked the blow from the club.

Porthos gave a mighty swing of his broad sword, knocking his opponent's blade out of his hand. Then one of the thieves gave a sharp whistle and they all scattered. Porthos took off after one of them, chasing him down a side street.

Up ahead, his path was abruptly cut off by Athos and Savron landing in the neighborhood square. The thief veered right and Porthos grinned; he'd turned down a dead end.

Porthos rushed after him, grin slipping slightly as the man continued to make an all-out run at the dead end wall. Where did he think he was going to go?

But the thief didn't stop; he ran straight for the corner of the wall and leaped, his feet bouncing between the two perpendicular vertical surfaces and propelling himself upward several steps. He twisted at the last jump, landing on his rump on the ledge, and then he swung his legs over the wall and slipped over it to the other side.

Porthos skidded to a stop, flabbergasted. Letting out a low growl, he spun around and backtracked quickly, whistling for Vrita.

She swooped overhead a moment later but had no room to land. Not that Porthos wanted to waste time with that. There was a wagon up ahead loaded with crates sitting next to a single level dwelling. Porthos narrowed his focus and increased his speed. It had been a long time since he'd done anything like this…

He braced himself and went for it, leaping onto the wagon and scaling the crates without slowing for a single beat, and launched himself up to grab a gutter. His foot slipped on the top crate, which went toppling down behind him, and he swung from the roof for a precarious moment before hauling himself up onto it. His heart was racing but he forced himself to get moving again.

Vrita was still circling, trying to figure out what he wanted. As she soared past, Porthos took a running leap off the roof and landed in the saddle. She gave a startled squawk at the stunt, which Porthos had to admit had worked better than it should have if he'd thought it through.

With a squeezing of his thighs, he directed Vrita to veer sharply back toward where the thief had fled. Aramis, it seemed, had already picked up the pursuit from the air with Rhaego. But after weaving over several streets, the russet dragon pulled up short to hover in the air.

Porthos and Vrita caught up, coming to a suspended stop next to them. "Where'd he'd go?" Porthos asked.

Aramis's mouth was pressed into a thin line. "Somewhere we can't follow." He shot Porthos a meaningful look.

Porthos shifted his gaze to the neighborhood directly ahead, and his shoulders drooped. It was the one place in all of Paris they would never be able to penetrate—the Court of Miracles.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The term "parcour" is about four centuries too early in this fic, but it is French!

The musketeers regrouped back at the garrison after their failed attempt to apprehend the gang of robbers. The failure left a bitter taste in Porthos's mouth, especially given what he now knew about the thieves. They would not be easy to catch.

"How exactly did you not manage to capture a single one?" Treville demanded as they assembled in his office for debrief.

The others exchanged embarrassed looks.

"They…" Joubert began. "They moved like acrobats or something, Captain. Leaped and bounded over obstacles without even slowing down."

"Same as before," d'Artagnan added. "One of them even…ran along the side of a wall." He grimaced at how crazy it sounded.

Treville was indeed looking at the young Gascon as though he wasn't fit for duty.

"It's called parcour," Porthos spoke up. "It's an agility skill practiced by some in the Court."

D'Artagnan quirked a confused brow at him. "I've never seen it at the palace."

"He means the Court of Miracles," Athos said.

Porthos nodded stiffly. "One of the thieves escaped to there, so likely that's where all of 'em are hidin' out."

Treville huffed out a frustrated breath. "It would take an army to enter the Court of Miracles. They're unlikely to turn over their own, not to mention we don't even have the identities of these specific criminals."

"There were four that attacked d'Artagnan and Constance when d'Artagnan killed one of them," Athos added. "And four again tonight, so there's also no way to know just how many are in this troupe."

"I could go in," Porthos said. "Try to get information. There are some old friends I could talk to."

"It's been a long time…" Aramis said carefully.

He nodded. "I know. But they were my family, in a way. I should at least try." He looked to the captain.

Treville's lips thinned, but he nodded his assent. "In the morning. For now, everyone get some rest."

Porthos gave a clipped nod in response and turned to leave.

"We'll go with you," Aramis said as they stepped out onto the balcony.

Porthos immediately shook his head. "I'll get further if I go alone."

"It's dangerous," Athos countered.

"I can handle myself."

Both of his friends let out huffs of displeasure but didn't argue further. Porthos appreciated the fact that they wanted to watch his back, but they all knew the Court would not be welcoming to a trio of musketeers.

"What's the Court of Miracles?" d'Artagnan asked as they clomped down the stairs to the yard.

"It's the poorest district in Paris," Aramis replied. "Home to thieves and criminals."

Porthos didn't miss the curious look the boy cast his way.

"You said in the captain's office…"

"I was raised there," he said, gruffly cutting him off.

"Amongst thieves?" d'Artagnan asked incredulously.

Porthos bristled, knowing where the lad's mind would have immediately gone. Yes, Porthos's past had its blots, but he'd changed, made something of himself.

"One can't control the circumstances they're born into," Aramis answered. "Only what they make of themselves when they're able."

Porthos's jaw tightened. The problem was not everyone was able. His mother hadn't chosen a life of poverty for them, and she'd done her best to care for Porthos, raise him right. She taught him kindness but also strength in a world that was not kind to them because of the color of their skin.

And when illness had taken her away, leaving Porthos to fend for himself, the streets had taught him how to be hard, how to survive.

But he'd never forgotten what he'd learned from her. He never let his circumstances harden his heart.

When he was old enough, he got out, made a better life for himself through soldiering. And even after he'd returned to Paris to become a musketeer, he hadn't been back to that place.

It wouldn't be easy going there now.

But he had a duty and a means to help that none of the others had. So he would do what he must.

The next morning, Porthos made his way on foot through the city to the Court. Tarps and shrouds hung across the streets, creating a boundary between that world and the rest of the city. People in sackcloth masks lined the rickety balconies overhead at the entrance. Though their faces were hidden, Porthos could feel their gazes boring into him.

He'd left his pauldron at the garrison. Today he was returning as one of them, not as someone they would view as an adversary. Though he was definitely armed.

As he approached, the people around him began to knock and hammer against the wood rails and posts. It was a warning to turn around and leave, but Porthos had no intention of doing that. He kept going, moving with the force of someone not to be messed with.

That didn't stop someone from finally stepping into his path, a short dagger in their hand. Porthos paused.

"I'm here to see some old friends," he growled.

The sentry didn't move. Behind him, other figures shifted in the shadows. Porthos zeroed in on one of them and jabbed a finger at the young lad.

"I was runnin' these streets before you were out of swaddlin' cloths. Now let me pass." He turned his glower back to the person blocking his way.

There was some uncertain shifting among them before they finally backed down. Porthos pushed past them roughly and made his way through the covered streets that used to be his home. It hadn't changed one bit in his years away. The desolation was the same, the poverty.

But then a pair of children went laughing down a side alleyway as they kicked a tin cup back and forth in lieu of a ball. Porthos's lips quirked as he remembered playing with his friends in these same streets.

Even those who had nothing could still find joy in living.

Porthos continued onward until he came to the block where he and the other orphans of the Court used to live. It was empty. There was an old woman on the street, sitting in a rocking chair with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

"I'm lookin' for Charon and Flea," Porthos said to her.

Her expression remained bland, but she canted her head down the street to a large house at the end of the road. Porthos headed toward it.

The door was open so he entered, but he immediately found a pair of guards blocking his path. They didn't say anything, so Porthos growled under his breath.

"Let me through."

"You always did think you were better than us," a voice called from the inner chamber.

Porthos frowned at the ring of familiarity to it.

The guards stepped away, and Porthos pushed past them and under some drapes hanging over the entryway. He came to a stop again inside the large room. It was decked out in animal skins and curtains, with candlestick holders set about. There was a table with goblets, wine bottles, and a bowl of partially bruised grapes. A parody of opulence, Porthos thought. He was even more surprised, though, to see Charon sitting in a chair cushioned with more fur skins, like it was some kind of throne.

Charon flicked his wrist, and Porthos glanced over his shoulder to see the guards leaving.

"You're in charge here?" he asked when he found his voice again.

Charon got to his feet. "That's right. King of the Court." His eyes narrowed a fraction. "I'm surprised ta see you here. Thought you'd turned yer back on us, never to return."

Porthos gritted his teeth. "I left to make an honest life for myself."

"And you did. A King's Musketeer. Congratulations." The praise was delivered with the hint of a sneer, belying his sincerity.

Porthos also frowned at Charon knowing that, despite the fact that he hadn't come in uniform.

"And yer here now because why?" his old friend demanded. "To lord your success over us?"

Porthos worked his jaw. "As a matter of fact, I'm here on Musketeer business. A group of thieves has been muggin' people throughout the city. An' they're hidin' out in the Court."

Charon chuckled and spread his arms wide. "It's a court of thieves." Then his expression hardened. "What exactly did you come here for, Porthos?"

"Information. An' since you're in charge here now, you probably know who these thieves are."

"Why would I turn on my own?"

"Because these men are violent for violence's sake. You don' want people like that here." Porthos shook his head; he'd known this wouldn't be easy, but he'd hoped Charon would see his side. "They're skilled in parcour. Very skilled. Not many of that lot. Help me stop 'em from hurtin' more people."

"Stop them from dishing out some justice to those who deserve it?" Charon countered.

Porthos faltered at the unexpected hint of vitriol. "The victims didn't deserve anythin'."

"The wealthy think they're better than us," Charon pressed. "Jus' like you do."

"That's not true."

"Yer the one who turned yer back on yer friends, wanted nothing to do with them."

"I asked you to come wit' me!" Porthos growled.

Charon flung his arms out to the sides. "This was our home!"

Porthos was vibrating with his frustration and he took a moment to breathe it out. "I didn't come here to fight about the past. I came to ask you fer help stoppin' this group of thieves before they kill someone."

Charon shrugged. "People in the Court die all the time. No one cares about them. You don't care. Yer only here now because you want something." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Tell me, Porthos, did you think of us once after you abandoned us? Wondered what became of your _friends_?"

"Of course I did." But the pointedness of Charon's question gave him pause. He glanced around the room, beginning to feel like he was missing something. "Where's Flea?" he asked. The three of them had been nearly inseparable once, a trio just like he, Aramis, and Athos had become. Until Porthos had left and they hadn't come with him.

Charon snorted under his breath. "She died. Four years ago."

Porthos felt the oxygen whoosh from his lungs like a physical punch. "How?"

"Winter was harsh. She always gave part of her share to the children."

Porthos's heart gave a pang of grief. Once upon a time, he'd loved her. And thought she loved him. But she'd chosen to stay in the Court instead of coming with him and he'd accepted that.

"I didn't know."

"No, you didn't."

Porthos tried to take another calming breath and redirect the conversation back to the issue at hand. "The thieves behind the recent attacks aren't servin' the people of the Court. Flea would be the first to agree that their actions are only goin' to hurt the rest of the people here."

Charon's expression twisted into a snarl. "She always did take yer side, didn't she? Except at the end there. Then she chose me. Bet that knocked you down a peg. The rich need to be humbled as well."

Porthos gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the personal dig. "They're not just targetin' rich people. They attacked two of my friends the other night."

"We only attack those who have coin."

"My friends were on an errand," Porthos insisted, then stopped as his brain caught up. "You…it's you."

Charon smirked.

Porthos blinked at him incredulously. "Yer leadin' this group? Why?"

"I told you: the wealthy have everything and we have nothing. I'm jus' trying to even the playing field."

Porthos mentally reeled back at what he was hearing. Charon had always held a grudge against those who had more than the impoverished people of the Court did, but Porthos had never imagined it would have escalated to this.

He suddenly realized the dangerous position he was in and cast a glance over his shoulder. The guards had returned with reinforcements, blocking his exit. Looking back at Charon's smug expression, Porthos had to wonder whether he'd planned for this, if he'd known Porthos would come here. Charon could have even been the assailant Porthos had attempted to chase down last night.

"Be careful what you do next," Porthos warned.

Charon's mien hardened. "You have no say here."

The guards surged forward to grab him as though on silent cue. Porthos tried to throw them off, but four was sufficient to restrain him and a fifth darted in to divest him of his weapons.

"The Musketeers know I came here," he growled. "The punishment fer assaultin' a King's man is execution."

"Yer already planning to arrest us," Charon countered. "And the _Musketeers_ would have to lay siege to the entire Court to do it, which they can't." He paused then and canted his head contemplatively. "Your friends you mentioned, they wouldn't happen to be the young woman and man from four nights ago? That boy killed one of our own."

Porthos stiffened.

Charon's lips quirked with malice. "So they are."

Porthos struggled against the men holding him, but their grips were firm. "Charon…" he said warningly.

"Tie him up," Charon ordered. "We have plans to make."

"What plans?" Porthos persisted as his arms were wrested behind his back and a coarse rope wound around his wrists.

Charon ignored him.

Porthos struggled harder until one of the guards got fed up and struck him in the temple. There was a burst of stars across his vision, then the room tilted and he fell into darkness.

.o.0.o.

Aramis drummed his fingers on the table in the garrison yard, eyes on the gate. Across from him, Athos nursed a cup of wine, and beside him d'Artagnan sat quietly, staring at the grooves in the worn wood. It had been several hours now since Porthos had gone to the Court of Miracles. Of course they couldn't have expected his errand to be quick; perhaps he was even taking some time to catch up with old friends. But that didn't allay their worry when the afternoon wore on and he hadn't returned. They'd filled their time that morning with duties and discussing strategies with Treville in case Porthos was unable to glean any information for them, but now they sat in restless waiting.

"How long before we go after him?" d'Artagnan spoke up.

"He's not yet late," Athos replied mildly.

Aramis continued to drum his fingers on the wood.

D'Artagnan let out an irritated huff.

A young boy suddenly appeared at the gate and leaned in to look around the garrison. He wore ratty clothes and his cheeks were smudged with dirt. Aramis rose to his feet and walked toward him.

"Can I help you with something?"

The boy visibly tensed but then held something out. "Fer the Musketeers."

Aramis took the proffered paper and the boy took off like a shot, darting between pedestrians and disappearing down the street. Frowning, Aramis opened the note that'd been delivered. His blood boiled as he read its clumsily worded contents and he stormed back toward the others.

"It's a ransom note," he said, throwing the paper onto the table.

Athos immediately snatched it up to read, eyes narrowing at the words.

"Ransom for Porthos?" d'Artagnan asked urgently.

Athos glanced at Aramis before laying the paper down. "An exchange," he said. "Him for the boy who killed the member of their gang the other night."

D'Artagnan stiffened. "They mean me."

Athos passed the ransom note to him. "They must have discovered you're working with the Musketeers."

A muscle in d'Artagnan's cheek twitched before he straightened. "What do we do?"

" _Not_ hand you over," Aramis replied. "If that's what you're thinking."

D'Artagnan's lips quirked wryly. "I appreciate the sentiment, but we can't leave Porthos there."

"We won't."

"The location for the exchange isn't the Court," Athos put in, looking at the note again.

"Which is fortunate, since we wouldn't be able to get to him otherwise," Aramis said. "We'll go to the meet, make it _look_ like we're doing the trade, and rescue Porthos."

"What about the friends he said he had there?" d'Artagnan asked. "Won't they try to help him?"

"That was a long shot to begin with," Aramis said. "And divided loyalties can never be counted on."

Athos rose from his seat. "I'll inform Treville."

"We won't be able to take a troop of musketeers," Aramis pointed out. "Likely the men behind this will have already staked out the area in preparation."

Athos nodded. "Our priority is Porthos. We'll deal with apprehending these criminals afterward."

D'Artagnan shifted on the bench seat as Athos made his way up the stairs. "Think they'll try to shoot me on the spot?"

Aramis turned toward him, mouth pinched in consideration. "If they did, they'd have a shoot-out on their hands. And I guarantee I'd get at least three of them in return."

The boy snorted. "That's comforting, I guess."

"You don't have to do this," Aramis said, not blaming the lad one bit for being nervous. "We could put a hood over my head and Athos can pass me off as you until we get close enough."

"No," d'Artagnan immediately protested, getting to his feet. "I'll do it. Porthos is in this mess because of me."

"Porthos is in this mess because the denizens of the Court have less honor than him," Aramis pointed out staunchly.

D'Artagnan's mouth turned down. "Do you think they'll even hold up their end, then?"

"I don't know. We'll have to be on our guard."

Lest they find themselves with two brothers in peril.


	3. Chapter 3

When Athos returned from informing Treville of this recent development—which the captain was _not_ happy about—the three of them set off toward the rendezvous point for the exchange.

"Put your hands behind your back," Aramis advised when they were almost there. He pulled a slip of rope he'd grabbed earlier and looped it loosely around d'Artagnan's wrists. "For appearances."

They rounded the last corner and came to a stop at the empty street that had been selected. Aramis roved his sharpened gaze over the nooks and alcoves one might hide in. He didn't detect any movement in the shadows, not even a cracked door creaked.

The three of them waited for several long minutes with no one showing themselves. Aramis began to feel anxious, his fingers twitching near the grips of his pistols.

"Why would they not show up to their own ransom drop?" d'Artagnan whispered.

"Perhaps Porthos gave them trouble," Athos mused quietly.

Aramis's jaw tightened. That didn't bode well. But surely they would have sent someone along to parley with them. Or perhaps ambush just to get their hands on d'Artagnan.

But not a single leaf was stirring in the area. It seemed the only ones who had shown up for the exchange were them.

"I'm beginning to feel like we've been played," Aramis said.

Athos made a thoughtful noise. "But to what end?"

"What's that?" d'Artagnan spoke up, forgetting to maintain his act and bringing one arm around to point over one of the rooftops.

Aramis followed the direction of his gaze and frowned at the wisps of brown smoke rising into the air. As he watched, it grew into thicker and darker plumes.

"Fire."

The three of them broke into a run, abandoning the failed meet and rushing to investigate what was happening. They rounded the next block over, one of the wealthier Paris neighborhoods, and pulled up short at the sight of a house ablaze. Up the street, a group of masked men were running from home to home, throwing bottles of liquor with flaming rags stuffed down the bottlenecks through windows. Glass shattered and tongues of fire climbed up the sides of the broken frames and curtains.

Aramis immediately drew one of his pistols and shot at one of the men before he could set another house on fire. The ball hit its target in the shoulder, twisting him mid-air as he pitched to the ground, the flaming bottle rolling out of his hand and across the dirt.

Athos and d'Artagnan had charged forward, drawing their swords. Someone drew a pistol and fired back at them but missed. Athos returned the shot with his pistol but was too far away for accuracy.

Aramis was running toward them now as well, but screaming from one of the houses had him skidding to a stop and changing direction. He darted toward the door which was already in flames. A woman was on the other side, clutching her young son as he screamed. Aramis took a running leap and jumped through the flames. He immediately snatched the boy up in his arms and grabbed the woman's elbow, directing them into the sitting room that had yet to catch fire. With the child braced on one hip, he drew his second pistol and flipped the grip over so he held it by the barrel, then smashed the window to pieces. He spared a brief second to brush some of the broken shards away from the sill with his sleeve before urging the woman to climb out. Once she was on the other side, he passed her the boy and scrambled out after them.

An alarm bell was ringing somewhere in the distance as people gathered in the street. Aramis ushered the woman and her child a safe distance away before whirling in search of Athos and d'Artagnan. Athos was yelling orders to people who had turned up with buckets of water. It appeared the men responsible for the devastation had fled.

But where was d'Artagnan?

Aramis turned in a circle again, eyes scanning the crowd. He didn't see the young Gascon.

A screech sounded overhead as Musketeer dragons swooped in carrying buckets of water and dirt to dump on the flames.

But underneath all the din and chaos, however, Aramis heard the telltale ring of clashing steel.

.o.0.o.

D'Artagnan had chased after the men setting fire to the homes with fierce abandon. The masked figures had looked like the thieves he'd fought before, but why were they attacking wealthy homes instead of following through with the hostage exchange they'd arranged? It just didn't make sense.

Not that d'Artagnan was going to take time asking those questions.

He briefly fought with one before the man had turned tail and ran. The rest had scattered as well, their destruction having been wreaked. Athos had given up pursuit to turn his efforts toward the immediate crisis of the fires. D'Artagnan hesitated, loath for these men to get away again. But the multiple fires were a significant threat to the rest of the neighborhood. D'Artagnan looked around for a source of water…and spotted one of the masked men darting down a side street.

D'Artagnan immediately charged after him, only to pull up short when he found himself facing _four_ of them. And by their stances, they'd been waiting.

"You were never going to make the exchange," he said in realization.

"I knew the Musketeers would never hand you over," someone spoke from behind, and d'Artagnan partially turned to see an unmasked, dark-skinned man block him in. "But now they're busy."

"You set fire to an entire neighborhood just to get at me?" d'Artagnan sputtered.

The man's eyes glinted with malice. "The wealthy think they're better than everyone. But now a few of 'em are jus' like us—no rich homes, no possessions."

D'Artagnan's gaze hardened at the man's cruelty. "Where's Porthos?" he demanded, tightening his grip on his sword.

"Enjoying the comforts of his old home," the apparent leader replied. "I'd suggest you could say goodbye to 'im, but I doubt you'll come quietly."

D'Artagnan considered it for a brief moment, if only to find his way to Porthos. But he didn't trust these men.

Shifting into a ready stance, he raised his sword. "You're right, I won't."

The others attacked. D'Artagnan fought with every ounce of fury as they tried to overwhelm him. Five against one was impossible odds, but they'd chosen to corner him in a narrower street that only allowed two abreast to come at him at once with blades swinging. D'Artagnan managed to stab one in the chest, but in the time it took to yank his sword back out, a second assailant managed to shove him back against the wall. D'Artagnan barely threw his main gauche up in time to catch the strike aimed at his neck.

A third blade caught him across the arm, and he hissed sharply from the sting. With a raging cry, he shoved the first man away from him and spun to meet the others trying to get a hit in. A fist punched him in the back, nearly buckling him, and a kick to his stomach sent him sprawling on the ground. Before he could get up again, he felt the pointed end of a sword pressing under his chin.

Then a pistol shot cracked the air and one of the men screamed as he fell. The one holding the sword half turned toward the source, giving d'Artagnan the chance to roll away from the blade. He caught a glimpse of Aramis storming into the alley, tossing his spent pistol away and drawing his rapier.

D'Artagnan leaped to his feet again and slashed at one of the goons who didn't block in time. One score across his stomach followed by the throat saw him felled. D'Artagnan turned as Aramis dispatched the fourth. The last man, the leader, was running toward the end of the alley, and d'Artagnan knew from previous experience that they'd never catch him with his acrobatic stunts.

But then Vrita suddenly climbed over the wall ahead, eyes alight with wrath. The thief skidded to a stop and immediately tried to backtrack, but Aramis and d'Artagnan closed in behind him.

Aramis leveled his sword at the man. "Where is Porthos?"

The thief slowly raised his hands in the air, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "He's fine, fer now. But if I don't make it back, my men have orders to kill 'im."

D'Artagnan exchanged an uncertain look with Aramis.

But before either of them could decide what to do, Vrita let out an enraged screech and climbed down from the wall. It was a tight fit in the narrow street but she managed to knock the man down and pin him beneath a taloned foot. He shrieked and flailed in terror.

Aramis sheathed his sword and nonchalantly walked over to crouch down next to him. "Let me introduce you to Vrita. She's very angry about Porthos and less reasonable than I am. And if he isn't back by this evening to feed her on time, well…she'll probably decide to find her dinner elsewhere."

Aramis let the implied threat hang in the air, though d'Artagnan wasn't sure the thief had even heard it, given how much of a blubbering mess he was under Vrita's gnashing teeth.

Aramis patted her neck. "Let him speak."

She growled again but lifted her head away.

"Where's Porthos?" Aramis asked again.

"In- in the Court."

"Where exactly?"

"I- I could take you there," he bleated.

Aramis scoffed. "How about you draw us a map? D'Artagnan, would you mind finding Athos and seeing if he can pull away to join us?"

D'Artagnan put his own blades back in their scabbards and headed out of the alley, confident in leaving Aramis and Vrita with their prisoner. He blinked in surprise to see a line of dragons from the garrison flying back and forth with buckets of water and dirt that they were dumping over the houses that were still burning. With their efforts, the work on the ground seemed more focused on keeping people back. Athos was standing in conference with some musketeers that had arrived at some point.

"Where did you get off to?" Athos asked when d'Artagnan made his way over.

"Fighting off the thieves who thought the fires were a good distraction to get me alone."

Athos's eyes narrowed a fraction, and his gaze shifted slightly to the side. "Are you all right?"

D'Artagnan glanced at his bloodied sleeve, only now remembering the cut he'd received. "Fine. Aramis has a prisoner who can take us to Porthos, if things are in control here."

Athos turned and nodded to the other musketeers before stepping into stride beside d'Artagnan. "Let's go."

.o.0.o.

Porthos struggled against the ropes pressing across his shoulders, stomach, thighs, and calves—to no avail. He'd been bound as thoroughly as possible, standing erect against a support column in an upper room of Charon's "royal" house. He'd woken up like that, and Charon and his men had been gone. Porthos had no idea how long it had been and he needed to get free, needed to warn d'Artagnan and the others.

But no matter how hard he strained, he couldn't loosen his bonds.

A familiar shriek suddenly split the air, followed by resounding impacts on the roof that shook the entire house. Outside, Porthos could hear people screaming. Then the window to his right shattered and he gaped in bewilderment at Aramis perched on the sill, holding a piece of wood. The marksman used it to knock the remaining shards free, then dropped the implement and unhooked his anchor line so he could hop through the window and land inside.

He scanned the room swiftly. "Any guards?"

"Don't think so. That ruckus yer makin' outside probably scared 'em off."

Aramis grinned. "That was the idea." His expression sobered as he crossed the distance and drew his main gauche to cut Porthos free. "Are you all right?"

"More embarrassed than anythin'," he said gruffly, shaking the ropes off. The movement jostled his aching head and he reached up to feel the knot on his temple. At least he didn't find any blood. "Charon was behind the whole thing."

Aramis gripped his chin and turned his head toward the light to get his own look and Porthos pushed his hand away.

"'M fine. Where's d'Artagnan? Charon was gonna go after him—"

"He's fine," Aramis assured him. "Waiting up top for us. You good?"

"Yeah. How'd you find me, anyway?"

"We received a ransom note wanting d'Artagnan in exchange for you," Aramis explained as he walked back over to the window and leaned out to snag the dangling anchor line. "No one showed at the rendezvous because they were busy setting fire to some rich homes nearby. Apparently they thought that a better distraction for getting d'Artagnan alone. Almost worked too." Aramis gave the line a tug and craned his head to look up, then signaled someone. "After we apprehended the leader—Charon, I presume—he was kind enough to draw us a map to where you were being held."

Porthos arched a dry brow at that.

Aramis just shrugged with a grin and passed him the anchor line. Porthos clipped it to his belt and climbed up onto the window sill. He felt the rope go taut and started to scale up the side of the wall. Once he reached the ledge of the roof, two pairs of hands grasped at his coat and hauled him up the rest of the way. Athos unclipped the line from his belt and tossed it back down to Aramis.

"You okay?" d'Artagnan asked in concern.

Porthos nodded, looking him over critically as well, and was pleased to see Charon hadn't gotten to exact his revenge.

Vrita chirped impatiently and Porthos grinned as he turned to give her a fond pat.

Aramis climbed up and the four of them mounted their dragons to return to the garrison. Porthos got a more detailed recounting of what happened on the way and was able to see the charred remains of the neighborhood that had been burned as they flew overhead. He looked away mournfully, trying to reconcile the boy he knew as a child with the spiteful man Charon had become.

They landed in the garrison, which was full of the other dragons having recently returned from putting out the fires. Treville was directing the men but strode over when he caught sight of the four of them.

"Porthos," he greeted with a nod. "Good to have you back."

"Good ta be back," he said as he dismounted.

"We only have the one arrest, and the four that Aramis and d'Artagnan killed," the captain informed them. "Did you discover how many were part of this gang?"

Porthos shook his head. "You have the leader though. That should put a stop to it."

Treville nodded. "He will face execution for his multiple crimes."

Porthos looked away.

"I'm sorry," the captain added. "I know he was your friend."

He shook his head, jaw tightening. "Was my friend. The man who did all this…I didn't know 'im."

Treville reached out and clapped his shoulder, then headed off.

Porthos sighed wearily. The day was almost over and he was spent.

"I think we could all use a drink," Athos suggested.

Aramis smirked. "That's always your answer to everything."

Athos shrugged blithely.

"Porthos?" Aramis queried.

"There's somethin' I'd like to do first."

"Would you like company?"

Porthos paused, then nodded. "Yeah."

His brothers followed him out of the garrison, not pressing him with questions as he made his way through the streets back toward the Court of Miracles, but not to the district itself. There was a square a block away from the Court where a lone tree grew next to a well. It was bigger and gnarlier than Porthos remembered, but still there.

And on the trunk was a clumsy flower he had carved into the bark as a child in remembrance of his mother. He knelt before it, reaching out to run his fingers over the rough grooves.

"What is that?" d'Artagnan finally spoke up, his curiosity always getting the better of him.

"A marker, I guess," Porthos replied. "There was no funeral when my mother died. I actually don't even know what happened to her body. I was so young at the time; all I knew was she was taken away. Probably in Potter's Field somewhere." He caressed the etched marks in the tree. "I didn't know her name or how to write even if I had, so I jus' came out here and made these childish scratches on this tree, because I felt she deserved to be remembered."

"She does," Aramis said.

Porthos bowed his head for a moment, then drew his dagger and set the tip to the trunk, carving an "F" for Flea. It was a few years late, but she was mourned too.

Porthos stood. "What's become of us?" he murmured to himself.

"Charon made his choices," Athos replied, having heard him.

"Did he really have a choice though?"

Aramis stepped up next to him. "Of course he did. Look at everything the four of us have been through; we could have let it turn our hearts black and forsake all honor. But we didn't."

Porthos drew in a long breath and lifted his head. No, they hadn't. The world had been cruel to them in different ways, but they had not let it defeat them. Each of them had had to pick up the broken pieces of shattered lives and keep going. That was the choice they'd made.

Porthos slung an arm around Aramis's shoulder. "Let's have that drink now."

.o.0.o.

It was late by the time d'Artagnan returned to the Bonacieux home that night, and he was a little tipsy from all the wine that'd been passed between him and the three musketeers. But it helped dull some of the stinging pain from his mild injuries so he didn't mind.

He was surprised when he entered the house and found Constance still up, sitting in a chair by the hearth. "Hey," he said softly.

She gave him a calculating once-over. "You've been to the tavern."

He grimaced sheepishly. "We caught the leader of the gang of thieves. It turned out to be someone Porthos knew, so I guess we were drinking both in celebration and commiseration."

"Oh. Is he all right?"

D'Artagnan pursed his mouth thoughtfully. "He will be. And the streets of Paris are a little safer now."

A little relief flickered over Constance's face. "Good."

D'Artagnan lingered for a beat, then gestured awkwardly toward the hall. "Well, I guess I better get to bed…"

"D'Artagnan." Constance stood. "I wanted to ask you something."

His heart gave a little flutter. "Oh. Okay."

"Since we've been doing a lot around here helping you learn your way around dragons…I was wondering if you'd return the favor and do something for me."

D'Artagnan quirked an intrigued brow. "Um, of course. What is it?"

She closed the distance between them, and his heart started to patter more rapidly. When she leaned closer, he felt himself flush hot.

"Teach me to shoot," she whispered in his ear.

D'Artagnan blinked. "Wh-what?"

"And fight with a sword."

"Um…okay." He really had not been expecting that. "Why?"

"I don't want to feel weak and vulnerable like I did when those men attacked us," Constance answered. Her lips curved upward. "Besides, why should men have all the fun?"

D'Artagnan shook his head with a smile of his own. Why indeed.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT TIME
> 
> A foreign Duke asks for Constance's hand in a political marriage, threatening the blossoming romance between her and d'Artagnan. And what happens if the man won't take no for an answer…


End file.
